The Clouds

I lay in bed wide awake last night for hours not able to sleep, so I had a good think about life, the universe and everything in it, and what it means to be a part of it. A. Part. Apart? So similar. Too similar actually,  so thinking about it properly theye are, in fact, the same. If you are apart from someone. You are A PART of them. So you see, absence really does make the heart grow fonder. Little late, but Happy New Year readers.


Today's post is based around the idea of a cloud. And more specifically? What it is like living with a severe mental disease.

There's another one. Disease... I'm sure you've heard this one, it speaks for itself. Dis. Ease. And generally speaking, all disorders and diseases are a direct result of dis ease. In the mind. There is nothing happens to our bodies we cannot cure with our minds. Especially with the help of good old mother nature (remember Her? She's outside. Not on TV.) Everything we need to cure all those aches and pains and coughs and cancers and everything in between,  is right outside. On this planet, where we live. So we were not put here by accident, we were put here because so was everything else to make sure we survived. It's all a neat little package we are a part of.

Unfortunately there's a lot of people out there full of greed and power hunger who choose to tell us we need this pill, that pill and this drug or that product. But that's for another days discussion.

Today, I talk of disease. Despite the fact that some diseases need a natural remedy,  and need to be prevented by natural plants herbs and spices, the bottom line is that dis orders and diseases of the body are all of the mind. Because you see, it's not even a case of 'the two are connected' - there is no Two. It is one. So anything happening in your mind will reflect on your body and vica versa. We can be our own worst enemies. But we can also be our own best and most treasured friends.

It is hard to accept that we may be affecting our health by not being mentally healthy but it is just the truth and if nothing else I tell the truth. Don't like it? Have a think, as to why you may not like it.

This is why healthy eating is so important.  I've done a lot of reading in to the properties of plants and herbs. It's actually magic. Lemon, for example. Antiseptic, anti depressant. Cleaning. Bay leaves. Cinnamon. Ginger. Garlic. Honey. To name a few. All these, they have astounding healing properties and it's just like magic. In fact, the definition, Oxford english, of magic,  reads thus: the higher truths of nature.

I'm happy to know this stuff, and happy to know that I am helping to heal my dis ease with stuff that nature provides. That's why I'm not on antibiotics for the bug ive got at the moment. And that's why I choose to take CBD oil, or, medicinal cannabis. Again, looking at it for what it is, it is a plant, with abundant healing properties. Whether or not it can be used for a high is totally irrelevant. So can a lot of things. There's no end to the things people get highs from.

Drugs? Here's another Oxford definition for you. Drug: anything that alters your body's metabolism. I think I may have touched on this before, by saying, how can anyone have an opinion that food is not a drug? Truth is, it's possibly the biggest one.

And the basis of my dis ease. Which brings me to what I thought I might talk of for a little time: what is it like, to have anorexia and bulimia?

I'm not talking about a list of symptoms,  or what it feels like, or what you look like or how you seem mentally to other people. I mean genuinely, what it is actually like. A description. I'm not going to bore you with the shit that goes through my head every minute of every day, thats more to do with what it feels like. I am going to make an attempt to describe in terms of other siterations or relationships,  what it is like living with, at least part of, your mind being anorexic. And bulimic. Bulimic is more difficult, because still being burdened by it I feel a sense of betrayal when I bad mouth it. I am also going to name some conditions of it and some of the lengths and places I have been in order to prolong and maintain this illness. It's not pretty,  but people listen to alcoholic stories and meth addict stories. This is similar.

Imagine a cloud. Any type of cloud. It doesn't have to be a dark one, full of rain and ready to burst and rain on you any second. But we'll start there. It's obvious,  so easy to imagine for a reader who may never have heard of anorexia. So I will create as easy as picture as I can to begin. So. You're out for a walk. It might be a sunny day, and it might be near to rain. If you're Irish this is fairly likely. So either way, clouds draw in, even if it was from a sunny place. It could have been lovely and you're strolling,  smiling, looking at the surroundings  (we'll make this a 'walk in the park' for arguments sake.) So, life is, at present, a walk in the park. Any cares? Nah. It's a good day. Money in the bank, food in the fridge, all that. And then, even before the sun begins to disappear, the light fades. And there's a sort of, stillness. It's eerie and you know something bad is about to happen. You feel this sense of heaviness in your chest and then the sky begins to darken more and the clouds block that sun. It's gone. All the while, sky darkens, darkens, darkens. And there's a rush, a gathering and then... wet. There's nowhere to shelter and droplets cling to your every pore and you know there's no point in running because you're miles away and all you want is to go home.

When you live with anorexia, that is home. When you live in your mind (will get to out of mind later) it rains everywhere, because there is no home. It's always like that,  even inside.

To be honest,  I wouldn't have run anyway, there was no point. One, chances are I've already gone for a six miles run at 5 am, and am on my 25th kilometer of walking that day and I know I still have twenty or more to go, and even if I go home and get dry, I am not allowed to eat my quarter of an apple that day because I haven't burned off six times its calorific value. I wouldn't deserve it. I wouldn't have earned it, and I would have to be punished by no half apple the next day, and double the exercise. So, I keep walking, in the rain.


Wet is not all bad. You get used to it. But let's face it, walking in the rain SUCKS ass. Nobody is know likes it. It's awkward even if you're dressed appropriately theres bulkiness of clothing, squelching, foggy glasses. It's a pain. And nothing really can prevent the unpleasant effects of walking in rain. And if you're not appropiately dressed? Forget it, it's horrible. Especially when you know that even when you're home and dry, literally, even when you're on the home stretch, somehow it's still raining.

Take the example of Right Now. I am sitting in the height of comfort and feeling better after a horrible bout of sickness, literally shrouded with love, devotion and good vibes. I could say more. It's just a happy picture and a happy life, yeah? And yet there in the back of my mind, is sheer and building terror about the next meal. How much to eat, what to make, how I'm going to manage the feelings afterwards and the possible consequences of not managing ALL of those feelings. I could make a list. It would take a while. And even right now, feeling good, happy, safe, loved and accomplished, an interruption in typing this as a phone call comes in which somehow translates in to my mind as an opportunity to self destruct. And so a plan forms. Yes. You see what I mean, by dis ease. The sense you get when even when everything is fine, your glasses are foggy or your feet are damp. All is not as well as it could be. It's discomfort, plain and simple. At least, that's and all it is now. It can be, may still be, and has been not so much a sensation of dis ease and discomfort, but a roaring, burning, screaming, hot fire of lava expldoing in your mindetails until you're unaware of everything around you or whose even in the room. It can happen anywhere,  any time, it can creep up or it can come without warning. Just like a rainstorm. That's where living in your mind and going out of your mind can switch. And actions can become mindless.

I am happy to say that these days I see it as discomfort. This is what I mean by feeling okay about using anorexia as my subject for mental disease, because I do not feel she can hurt me or retaliate somehow if I write about what she can turn a person in to. Or infiltrate in to your personality. It's sort of like a virus. It's like an evil force which starts like any viral invasion, starts as one, and multiplies taking over each cell in multiples that double in size with every cell. Until it has taken over. Eventually the entire body is ridden with viral infections and the sickness sets in. I had a dream about it, while I was feverish during this illness. I woke up sweating and shouting. It's sinister, how viruses work. I feel okay today to sit here and compare that part of my mind as a virus,  as not only am I full of antibodies to prevent infections and remedies to fight against this stuff (naturally, as I stated above, at the start) I have mental antibodies against it because I have the strength and will to allow it to work with me instead of by invasion. (End result, sickness) this is what I meant,  when I said lemons etc have antidepressants in them. So I feel I have protected my body and mind of anorexia. And I know that as this stage in my life I will never go down under a safe body weight again.  I know that I will never need physical help because of having a low weight.  I am, by all accounts, free of my anorexia. I will not lie, she's having a bit of an auld roar at me at the moment but it will quiet. I cannot calm a storm so I wait for it to pass. Because it will. Nature. ".... after the rain the sun...after the sun the rain..."

Incidentally,  I was thinking about the aforementioned opportunity. I have options. As to whether to use it as a bulimic opportunity to go out of my mind for fifteen minutes,  and balance my way through the rest of the day fuelled by temporary euphoria and tension relief. Or. To take the opportunity to grow. To do something else. To turn my back on temptation and do something pleasant. For me. Or for someone else. Sometimes I find if I am choosing not to self destruct, then the other option is to do something nice for somebody else. Maybe it makes me feel like a better person or maybe it just distracts. Whichever,  it helps. If the end result is the absence of a bulimic episode, then job done. It will eventually be the case that I consciously choose to do something for me in that period of time, but for now, usually I clean. Or do something  nice for someone. With this in mind, tomorrow looks brighter and moreleasing hopeful than it did a few minutes ago.

Here's something else to imagine.  I don't know if everyone has felt this, but my guess is it's a fairly common occurrence through most people's primary, secondary education or even later in life. It is this. Imagine you make a friend. A friend who was someone who you spotted a while back and wondered how it would be to be friends with them. It looks good, you even went home from school and imagined scenarios involving you and this potential friend. All looks good. And then she spots you, and it's possible she's thinking the same. After a time, you become friends. Those scenarios come true and you feel safe and it seems like the right thing. And it seems like the right answer. It's just you and her and fuck who ever gets in the way.

After a time something begins to shift. She's beginning to look a lot better from a distance, from where you were before. You begin to dislike her. You try to avoid her and try to make other friends. And then trouble starts. She gets possessive and then you feel trapped. You feel like you can't get away. Etc....

Apply that to a mind with anorexia. It's a lot like an abusive relationship, what I described and even touches on what being bullied is like. But if you think of anorexia as that friend.... or so called. Because it seems like your best friend for a long time, during the intensive training period of self control. It's a long time disguised,  and usually someone else points it out.

But that bit, in the story, where I said that she spots you. Well she does. This demon. In that respect it is like an abusive relationship as serial abusers will prey on the weak and they know how to choose them. You are a potential victim if you're vulnerable. And if you've been battered emotionally, or you're vulnerable enough to be looking desperately for an answer from someone or something other than your own soul, then you're an easy target. I was juicy meat, and the wolf came to feed. But instead of feeding straight away, she enticed me in to her lair with lies and empty promises. And by the time I realised it was a problem, I couldn't get out.

Friendships like the one I described are not forgotten. Even if you get away - which is the only way. Sever. Run. Shut out. Surely everyone has had, at the very least, someone who they befriended and eventually ended up hating and finding a burden? Surely. I went in to a lot of described but that's the basis of what I was asking you to imagine. But they are nothe forgotten. This can be used to ones advantage when in a recurring situation. And having anorexia is like groundhog day. Routine. Rituals..timing. practice..dedication..focus. control. Frightening just how much these things can be applied with devastating results. Imagine turning them 180 degrees and using it for recovery.

This is just another way of describing what it is like to live with it. Certainly for my anorexia. My bulimia is a different story because I feel this is more of an addiction. Even more. Anorexia is an addictive too, weight loss and obsessions are highly addictive.

After a  while, people in the fad diet world will know, your body goes in to a state of ketosis. In this state, it begins to feed on stored fat. There's a whole science behind it and nowadays there are 'keto-diet' recipes which follow a high fat and high protein diet which urge you to put your body in to ketosis. And after a while it feeds itself on your own organs. Heart muscle. Etc. What it produces though,  is a sugary taste in your mouth and sweet sugary smelling breath. I used to be addicted to that taste... watching your body change and shrink and knowing it's all your own self control and sheer will power that's making it happen

 (have you any idea how difficult it is to starve yourself? I mean starve. Like, when you wake up on the bathroom floor after blacking out for 45 minutes and seeing that maybe it's time you ate because it's been eight days with nothing, and I mean nothing, but black tea, so you eat one bran flake. And then take 100 laxatives,  as you have every day for a year, and run 8 miles to the gym, do a four hour workout  and walk home again. And then repeat for another 8 days. Over and over. That kind of starving)

it's extraordinarily empowering and power,  too, is addictive.

But I felt the powers of addiction take over when my eating disorder swayed much more heavily, in to the hands of a spirit called bulimia. I'm aware of course, that those hands are mine, and this demon and 'she' that I refer to are me. It was all me and I do not deny it. It helped me, and others I know who lived with this, to turn it in to a separate entiny, a different part of me, at least for a while. It means you can understand it as an illness and realise that it's not making you a bad person, and so to reduce feelings of self blame for being this way. They used to say 'it's not you,  it's the illness, we understand that it's not you' nurses I mean. Which actually isn't true, because it is always you. We are always always responsible for our actions,  no matter how we feel. But they wanted to help. Other nurses, they allowed me to scream binge and then vomit all over them while being dragged across the floor by security guards and pinning me to a bed.

Addiction is incredibly, mind blowingly character altering. The need to engage in the addictive behaviour or substance can make you, and you allow yourself, to do things that others would never even have nightmares about. You read stories of them in Best and That's Life etc. These SHOCKING STORIES YOU WON'T BELIEVE ps buy this magazine, rags they have in doctors waiting rooms. You wouldn't believe them.  Some of them seem so. I didn't lie, about vomiting on the nurse and being dragged by security guards. I don't lie when I say I have, more than once,  eaten my own vomit. Hadn't had enough of a 'hit' and shops were closed or had no more money to buy any more binge food, and so... I'm not lying when I say I have let dogs eat my vomit. Nor am I telling a lie when I say I spent nearly 12 solid years vomiting over fifty times a day in plant pots,  cups,  sinks, fires, bins,  out of windows to name a few. I'm not lying when I say I have climbed in to bins looking for food, not turned up to parties when I judge the situation enough to realise I can't binge, i tell no lies when I say I got banned from gyms, banned from pharmacies for laxative abuse, thrown out of shops for eating foodd directly from shelves because I was so hungry, and have ripped naso gastric tubes out of my stomach even when nothing else was keeping me alive. I do not lie when I say that I have shoplifted food countless times, and I am not lying when I say I researched prostitution in order to buy more binge food.

Addiction is ugly


It was the life I chose. And as I write this, with the man I love sleeping on my lap next to me, I feel nothing but joy, not only to be alive after all that. But also that I do not choose it anymore. I feel a sense of rejoicing that for tonight, I chose to cook a meal full of goodness, and keep it there. It really does feel good, to show yourself a bit of love. I think it's cyclic, like shame and guilt. In the same way that feeling shame about doing something causes such low esteem that you do it's again, causing more shame;  so too, do self love and deserving. Giving yourself some lovin', even as small as opting for something healthy,  or having a candlelit bath, sparks feelings of deserving, resulting in more love and kindness towards oneself.

Clouds, even light fluffy ones, leave you in a haze and you can't see what's sometimes right in front of you. If you're in this cloud, often even further clouded by body dismorphia, yes it is incredibly hard to ever see a way out. And that friend looks pretty attractive,  because it seems there's no other choice, nobody else and that nobody understands. There is always,  always a choice. It comes down to that, do I live?  Or... (no, not die, though that too, is a choice and option) or do I exist? Living with an eating disorder is an existence, not a life. With life, comes peace. And freedom. Freedom from a trap you set for yourself by not giving yourself the love that you, like every single other person on this earth deserves. Empowerment from self control? No. Empowerment from waking up in the morning and saying,  I'm alive! Yes. Empowerment from starvation? No. Empowerment from knowing that just by waking up every day and breathing,  you see stronger than your demonic force. Yes. Yes. Yes.

Believe it. All of you. Those with mental health good and diseased. Love that.  Love you. It's working out pretty well for me.  It took patience,  time, and a lot if near death experiences,  but I feel like I'm on the other side. It pays, not to give up. Life has rewarded me in ways I never thought possible. I will sleep, tonight. Knowing that one day someone will read my story and have courage to make the steps I have.

"I know my worth. I paid dearly for every ounce of it"

And it was worth it.

The Dogs, and the cat.

 

Last night I got more talkative than usual, maybe. Or  maybe I just couldn't keep it in anymore... I dunno. Doesn't really matter, the outcome was my admittance to how much I've been fucking up in terms of keeping my bulimia in hand lately. It didn't go down too well, obviously. Why would it? I can't actually imagine what it must be like to have to live with, no worse, love, another human being who has their finger permanently on the self destruct button, especially when the only time it gets removed is when I stick it down my throat. Well, I can imagine... I have a good idea. Only fleeting, just for a few minutes, and it was horrible. The feelings it evoked in me were not ones I am able to deal with. And you know who I called on for help and guidance when I had to feel those feelings? The very person I admitted my bulimic behaviours to last night. So. I understand the anger, I understand the tears and everything else, I get it. And it broke me. 

Had a bad night anyway... two night terrors. They shake me. I wake up the next morning and I'm like a shell of who I actually am. I have this weight on my chest, this ache, and it doesn't lift for hours and hours, well in to the day when the night is truly passed on. I wake up screaming, I'm stuck to the sheets I'm sweating so much, questioning whether I've wet the bed it's that drenched. (I'm just creating a picture, not trying to gross you out, reader) I am shaking, literally vibrating with sheer terror, and I can't get my breath, I don't know where to look, which part of my body needs to be held, just held, until the pain stops, first. Usually I'd hug my knees first because it envelops quite a lot of the body, that type of self embrace. Not that it works anyway. I have never successfully calmed myself down after a night terror. 

My usual response is to get the fuck out of bed, because I need to move, and because bed is not a safe place for me anyway. And I usually end up in the kitchen eating, followed by the bathroom, bringing it back up. It's my go - to reaction/response when something goes wrong , when I feel scared, when I'm anxious, upset... get sick. Bring up whatever might be in your stomach, if anything, in the hope that some of the pain will come up as well. Just for the record, it doesn't. But it is my first response when feeling emotion, is to vomit. Fuck, fucking hell. Even pleasure. I swear to God, I have honestly, even reasonably recently, induced vomiting when I am not remotely distressed. Not only because it's an automatic response for me after eating, but it's like.... Jesus, this is so fucked up. Forgive me, but I've only ever told one person this, and it was last weekend. I have to get this out. Okay so basically, like any addiction, as bulimia is, there are highs and lows. With bulimia, for me anyway, I get a very distinct rush, a high, if you will, from bringing up something I have eaten. Not every time, but enough. The other day I actually said to myself "God that felt good". And it's not the first time I've said it, nor, I doubt will it be the last. Well. That's a stupid thing to say actually because it gives the implication that I intend to continue being bulimic. Which I don't... I actually never have. Every day I wake up with a new intention to get it right today. 

But I did get high from it. That's why I call food a drug. Same as any alcohol or drug addiction, I do, on a daily basis, experience highs and lows before, during and after, in my case, meal times and eating and episodes of purging. I know how fucked up that is, but it's the truth. And I tell the truth. I've lied a lot in my life, and though some people may not like what I say, this is my space, this blog, to say what I feel and think and experience, so damned if I'm going to lie on this. No way. To use a major cliche, truth hurts, huh?

But the rush I get is more than that. That part explains the highs, what it doesn't explain is my thought process behind inducing vomiting while I am feeling good. I actually found myself doing the same with cigarettes. I feel anxious, I have a cigarette to calm my nerves. I feel stressed, I cool down, take a moment, and have a ciggie. I cry for ages, after it's over, I reach for the tobacco. And... I feel happy, relaxed, elated... I have a cigarette to 'celebrate', in a way I suppose it's like heightening the good feeling, by intoxicating your body with an addictive substance which also makes you feel better/good. For me, it's the same with my bulimia. There I said it. I don't get that sensation anymore, and I would never, ever, attempt now, to search for that high by doing it, but I won't lie, it has happened before, that I have done it even when feeling good. I would not do that now. I honestly only admitted that for the first time 6 days ago, and that was to another person with my illness. I have never ever told that, even to someone with anorexia, I honestly don't think even they would understand it. Only someone with bulimia could understand that. I don't have a lot of followers of my blog, but I know that saying that could actually stop some people from ever even looking in my direction again. And for that, I am sorry. Please don't think too badly of me, 'cos it's nothing compared to some of the stuff I've got buried in me, but it's enough.

So, night terrors. Last night I did not get out of bed when I woke up or eat anything, but the whole point of that diversion was that I was going to say, that I have, very often, woken up from a night terror and got physically sick. It's an emotional response for me, and I honestly can't say how soon that is going to change? Even if I stop inducing it, which I have already by the way, I don't know how long it will be before the feeling that I am going to get sick goes away when I am feeling emotional in any way. I feel nausea at the slightest bit of upset and distress and it's becoming increasingly noticeable. I worry those feelings will never go away. Which brings me to the first point of this post. 

Depression. 

I can't count the amount of times the words "Snap out of it" have been said to me. It's not that bad, they say. Just eat it, they say. It's easy, they say. WHY DON'T YOU GO AND FUCK YOURSELF. Anybody with depression will have that response. Nobody with depression wants to hear that. People have a vague idea sometimes, that it actually is that simple. (Maybe it is?) People, without knowing what is really involved in the process, have suggested hypnonis (rather than hypnotherapy) as a  means of doing the said "snapping out of it". Like, wake up and magically want to eat again, like that kind of snapping out of it. I've mentioned of course that I've had hypnotherapy and of course it doesn't work like that, but people watch TV, they assume that it works like that, you wake up and you're cured. But anybody with depression, or indeed, any mental health issue in any shape or form, even mild stress, will surely agree with me on this one, for someone to say, "Get your shit together, grow up, come on, you can do better...." and the dreaded snap out of it, or worse, for me, JUST EAT IT, is the single most stupid thing you can say to someone who is literally sitting wondering why the fuck they're still alive.

Which is really, in all honesty, where I was at this morning. My attempts at explaining how I felt were pretty lame, such as, "I don't matter" and "What's the point", which of course evoked the response Snap out of it, hardly surprising given my pathetic replies, but it was all I could muster up. When I'm feeling that level and that intensity of despair, apart from anything else, I barely have the strength in any part of my body to cry or scream, and I can't talk. I'm sitting there focusing all my energy on just breathing, and as soon as I become aware of that, I wonder why I'm bothering breathing in the first place. And it's just such a feeling of total darkness that you really have to wrench yourself out of like tar just to force yourself to take another breath... No, I do not want to launch in to explanations of "how I'm feeling". This is why therapy was ineffective for me for years. I didn't want to be here, and I didn't know how I was feeling, nor did I care. And being asked to explain it just pissed me off. Basically, I have no idea how to express myself, all I can think is.... black. Just black. And thick, like something you have to wade through with so much strength, that in the end isn't even worth the effort to get to, so you just give up and sink in to the blackness.

Which is how my dream started last night. I was in a sea or river, at night. I don't really remember much about my dreams most nights, I tend to block them out before they can grip my soul too tightly, but I do remember from this one, this incredible, vast, endless, wave of black, black, water washed over me, came at me... there was nothing I could do... As I'm sure a lot of people know, eating disorders, particularly anorexia, are all about control. I do not, DO NOT, like, feeling out of control. It's why I rarely drink. It scares me, I mean the most deep rooted sheer terror that you can possibly imagine. I really, really hate it. When I have these dreams, the really bad ones that wake me up, that feeling is there. It's not a case of fight or flight. It's freeze. Like, petrified still, rooted to the spot with fright, in the knowledge that there is nothing, absolutely nothing I can do to prevent what is about to happen to me, and the only thing I am certain of at this moment is that it is going to hurt. So you know what? I wake up, and I get sick. I really cannot describe any better, the feeling I get in these situations. Luckily now, it's only in my sleep. But I can safely put my hand on my heart and say, because I've experienced it (See one of my earlier blog posts, I think the one called The Past), that is what rape feels like. That feeling of total and utter helplessness powerlessness. Particularly when you've been drugged, because it intensifies the lack of control over the situation and over your own body. It engulfs you more than flames engulf wood, every part of you is going to feel that pain, and there is no choice but to succumb to it. That's night terrors, for me. Like I said, not very nice! And I had it twice last night.

Which brings me back to my introduction of: This morning was not much god damn fucking fun, yeah? Most of the time I was sitting there making the aforementioned pathetic attempts to explain myself with statements like, what's the point, I was actually mentally dragging razor blades down my stomach. It seemed like a good option at the time. I didn't, just for the record. But my God, I wanted to. Like I said before as well, I just didn't have the fucking energy to bother with anything. (I refer to my earlier: What's the point). Then it would lift, something would shift slightly after a particularly truthful statement that hit home, and I'd see things clearer... but it just went back. And kept going back, back to hopeless. Back to black, to quote the song. Took a long time to get out of this morning, and to be honest I'm not really sure if I have come out of it. I feel a lot sort of... quieter, or humble, or something, than I did before.

However, I did shift. Significantly. This is why, and the reason for at least half the title of this post. The dogs. I looked up, in the middle of all this, and said, let's take the dogs out. I know, I know, they do say that exercise is good for depression, which I am a firm believer of. I advise exercise for every living thing on this planet, it's just the most fantastic thing you can give yourself. (As long as you don't walk til your feet bleed... and as long as you nourish yourself with the right foods to balance the exercise, which obviously I have a wee bit of a problem with) But seriously, generally, exercise? Fucking brilliant. It releases chemicals in your brain, endorphins, which in turn bring about positive and happy feelings. Same you get when you eat chocolate. Seratonin. Happy hormone! Exercise does it too, and it's great. Anyway, I just suddenly thought, let's take the dogs out. Let's get out and see the world, taste the air, give the dogs something to feel good about, breathe the cool morning dew and just generally let nature wash over us. It seemed like a good option, given how I was feeling. So we did.

It's not difficult to describe the feeling of walking through muddy fields in wellies and the feeling of fresh air hitting your face. Most of you, I'm sure, have had that simple pleasure more than once in your lifetime. Fresh. Cold. Dewy, just... pure. I get that every day, the second I step outside. But today I noticed it a bit more, and once we got to the field and the dogs went running after the frisbee, I allowed it to soak in while watching the dogs fetch it. The redness of the frisbee against the subtle colours of the winter scene struck me. It didn't bother me, it just struck me in particular. I guess I was watching it too, following its path like the dogs were. The rest of course was the gentle greens of surrounding pasture, the soft pastels that blend in to each other. And of course, the person I love was standing beside me, training the dogs, in the most amazing way, gently explaining his actions (I'm not exactly someone who knows how to train a dog). And that calmed me, because it was just... the situation. As it was happening, right now. That's it. So I started to feel a bit more like the person, the woman, that I am. My age, my name, my size, my sex, my shape... Pippa.

And then I got thinking about the dogs, while watching the dynamic between dog and owner, and between the two dogs themselves. The dominance of Skippy, the way she needs to be in control to feel like she is doing her job, her absolute adamancy that she will do what she is told and be the best dog she can be, and loving the satisfaction, versus the humble nature of my lovely, Milo, who is clearly more interested in giving his love for me and for everyone around him, than engaging in silly frisbee games. It's not that he won't play, he chases it, I've watched his body arc in exactly the same fashion as the frisbee as it flies. He just is busy loving. Anyway, we talked about this, we watched it, and soaked in the good feelings it envoked. We walked a little through the fields, not more than a stroll, but somehow it felt like enough exercise. And I do a shit tonne of exercise, this is not something I would usually even consider counting towards my calorie burn for the day. It just somehow felt like enough, the right amount. Which is pretty rare for me. Usually it takes a lot, or I still angst that I haven't done enough. So you can understand the goodness I was beginning to feel.

It was nice.

Tiny, pathetic, insignificant word really. Nice. Doesn't really belong in the English language...and yet, it does. Sometimes it describes something perfectly. It's just a little word, and it's misused and overused. But what I felt was nice. In the sort of... not good, not bad...just comfortable, steady, satisfied and enough, in the right way... nice. You know?

Kept watching the dogs, and continued to feel nice because of the thoughts about my dog, my Milo, and what he means to me. I'm sure most dog owners will feel this, and also say what I'm about to say "He's special. Nobody else has a bond this strong with their dog". But nevertheless, I do feel that. Milo, though I've had him barely two years, has been a constant in my life. His love for me, I feel, is unconditional, and always will be. He doesn't ask for anything, and therefore doesn't punish me if he doesn't get anything. And so, it's really easy to give to him. And he accepts with so much joy, and radiates love and care for me. He knows, he knows, how much I hurt inside. And he knows when it's bad, he knows when he needs to be there, but he also knows when I need a bit of fun, that this will help, so he plays. The way he behaves towards me, other people, and other dogs, is how I think humans should behave towards each other. I genuinely believe that if Milo was a man, and that the world was full of men, and women, like Milo, that the world would be a seriously lovely place to be in. I know that's kind of a weird thing to say about a dog, but hey, it's less fucked up than some of the other shit I've come out with tonight, so let's let it slide. Again, I'm trying to create a picture here. Go with it.

Not only that, but Milo was there for me at a time when I didn't feel I could rely on anyone else. I said, he was a constant. He IS a constant, that still remains, even though he knows now that I do not need to rely on him. Nobody else in my life was that constant, always there, no matter what, and he doesn't even have a smart phone! Sure, there were people I did rely on, all the time, and still do, I don't need to name you because you know if you're one of them. There's a lot. But people have their lives, their shit, their problems, and they need to be places, whatever. Life. I wouldn't ever expect another human to be my constant. (Yet I seem to have stumbled upon a constant in my life I never ever even dreamed of). Milo was that person. He just knows. He knows everything. Sure of course he does, I've told him things I wouldn't tell another living soul, of course he knows. He looks at me, and he understands every god damn word I'm saying.  Also, he's watched me go through it, and trust me, the looks he gives me while it's happening have actually made me stop in my tracks, at least in front of him. It's crushing, all he is, is disappointed, and downright heartbroken. He can't bear it, I mean literally he leaves the room, or waits outside the bathroom, he cannot stand by watching his Person in that much pain. Okay, I'm stopping dog talk now cos I recognize I might be starting to sound slightly off my game here (but start at the top of the post, it's a lot crazier up there). The point is, I just love my dog, I love Skippy, and I am more in love with the person I share home with these two incredible creatures than I ever thought possible to love another.

So, I started to feel a whole lot better. Exercise eh? Air. Nature. Does the trick. And all that love.  You may be in open air, but you're surrounded in it, it's just like a warm wind from another direction. It's subtle, but you feel it and you notice it. I think it even has a smell, you know the same way sea air does. It's a bit like being hugged, all the time.

I feel a lot better, and blackness shifts and lightens. In the same way that a thick smoke clears, so too, does dark water. Eventually you begin to edge closer to the sun... in other words, you do, quite literally, See The Sun. There's songs about this stuff, it's real. It doesn't get more real than what being outside this morning did to shift such deep feelings not only of falling and flailing, but failing, in to feeling well, alive... and it honestly took about four minutes from start to finish.

(Just in case anyone wants a bit of mush, I'm now tearing up, for two reasons. One, because Milo just wandered over and licked me, at the perfect moment And then, I took a break from writing this, I just wanted a cuddle, and I was feeling loving but turned away typing, so I really wanted to give a cuddle, and the little cat was curled up behind us - no, I haven't forgotten Lottie in this, notice the blog post is called The Dogs... and The Cat, she's a major part of this, but the latter half - and I was gazed at with this immense flow of endless love that put a sort of balloon in my chest, and then the dogs came over and lay down at our feet and it was just this lovely sense of being part of a family, my family, that really made me feel... at One.)

Do you know what changed all that, in seconds? It's nothing I did or said, no behaviour, thought, word, action or feeling; nor was it anyone else's. It was purely physical. Nothing alarming, no. But it changed things for me, and I went back to a darker place, because of how I was feeling physically, and the reasons that led me to feel like that.

Bit of a whirlwind week with the health to be honest! Compilation of a bunch of things, and a serious mother fucker of a toothache. On top of crippling digestive problems (I had a year long stint of taking a hundred laxatives a day and eating fourteen packets of chewing gum a day, and my stomach rarely had anything in it for very long, for a really really long time, my digestive system and my whole stomach lining and all that is pretty fucked by now. Not to mention a bunch of other stuff, including how many prescription drugs I was on to fuck up my stomach), I had to have a tooth extraction. Wasn't a routine extraction so lots of pain and then, inevitably, it got infected, so she put me on antibiotics. Which I had a pretty alarmingly bad allergic reaction to, resulting in some pretty awful stuff for two days, only really ended last night. So, I haven't actually kept anything down for two days, and before that (the whole cause of my 'fess up last night as stated at the start of this) my bulimia had gone pretty haywire. So there wasn't a whole lot of anything in my system. Funnily enough, I've gone eight days without ingesting anything except black tea, and water with lemon in it, and functioned an eight hour exercise day without a wobble in the past, but these days, I guess my body has had enough of my bullshit, because it gets a bit narky when it goes through, or gets put through by me, much rough treatment. My point is that basically I began to find it pretty hard to stand up because my head just went really fuzzy and dizzy and I just kinda wanted to lie down but the ground was wet and I didn't want to cause a fuss all over again. So bluffed my way back somehow and ate something, which I did actually keep down. I wanted to because I needed to. And in that respect, and after everything that was said, and that I felt, it was pretty easy to do.

Wrote that paragraph you just read before I took my break, and then came back and wrote all the stuff about my family and all the love I'm surrounded by,  and how it's like being hugged all the time, and when I came back, I deleted was written about the day, all the dizziness what it represents blah blah, and about the mental struggle of lunch blahde blah,  because actually, none of that really matters any more, what matters is what is right in front of me, here and now. That, readers, is what we have. We have a fixed past, and we have a potential future... but we have a sure and completely definitive Right Now, and that is actually all we need, because once that is secured, whatever That is (doesn't even have to be good) the rest is laid out in the pattern we choose before we act in the present moment that means the future is secured too, for the better. So even if the present isn't good, you know you've already changed it. Not only that, but once we're Present, in the present moment, the past doesn't matter either, and it just melts away a bit, until it's easier to let go of. 

I felt this a lot while I was away and scribbling in a notebook while travelling. I thought about my life now, my whole present way of life and of being, and it brought me back from any not so good places I was going, which it always does. Being in the present moment shifts all that. I forgot that, this morning, and had not remembered until after I wrote the first part of this post, and looking back, it's pretty bleak. 

I honestly nearly went too far down this morning. Came back up for a bit, but that dizzy thing slipped me back again. It brought up a lot of emotions to do with inadaquacy, feeling like my eating disorder ruined a good moment again, and that it would always do so...and bad memories of blood sugar dips (it kinda makes you hallucinate if it gets really low) and those feelings kept coming back all day, I wasn't feeling lighter when I started this post. And the knowledge that all this stuff started because of my bulimia was repeatedly doubling all those feelings. The whole feeling was too much. I honestly nearly went too far.

I don't want to go there again. I said I nearly went too far - I have been too far, that is what I mean when I say I don't want to go there again. Last time I went there, even though it was only for a few hours, I nearly died because of what I did to try and escape it. It would kill me this time, if I went there again. You know what? I don't deserve to go there again. With this knowledge, it's in my power to prevent myself from going there. It makes it my choice, where I go in my head and which side of me I choose to help me in which situation. This thing is about using my whole self to heal my whole self, not trying to completely eliminate the negative sides of me, which I end up abusing myself with. We all have different parts, some good, some not so good - "a dark side" so to speak; or a devil on one side and an angel on the other. Whatever way you look at it, this is fairly commonplace. I have these two extra devils on my shoulder called anorexia and bulimia, so it's a little tricky, but it seems that it can be figured out in a way that you sort of mould yourself back in to one amazing being, a complete version of your true self;  but in a way that you remain separate from the negative part of you, which allows it to work with you rather than against you. Reading back over this it seems so simply put, and actually sounded a lot more complex in my head: it is complicated alright, but once you integrate yourself, the whole You is fighting against the badness, the demons. It's a good place to be, united with yourself.

I did a brave thing today. It sounds like nothing but for me, it was. Not buying chocolate today... I've used it as a security a long time, but it got to the stage where I was replacing meals with it after purging, and eventually, purging because I knew I could just eat some chocolate... It goes in to this cycle every few months actually... love-hate relationship. For a time, I replaced meals with it in general, until for years, it was the only thing that was safe. I spent a number of years in my very early twenties, eating enough calories to be on a safe weight gain program, but I never ate an actual meal, ever. This of course got me in a lot of trouble in hospital because I was forced the meals but purged them because I was getting enough calories in my own way, which was of course the wrong way, and I got little proper nutrition. I  refused to follow their programs and did it on my terms, which pissed off one hell of a lot of people, but at the time, my terms kept me alive, and it was the only way I could do it without literally falling in to emotional oblivion. 

If anybody is reading this who ever bought for me, or brought in, special food for me... I know you may have felt like you were doing the wrong thing, but it was the only thing that stopped me from going so crazed inside those places that they sectioned me. It saved me. I mean, I barely wanted to be alive during those times, but somewhere inside deep down I did, so I ate chocolate to keep me alive, because the will to live wasn't strong enough to eat, and my eating disorder and body dysmorphia was consuming every rational thought in my head so that I could NOT eat....except one rational thought, I have to stay alive, I can't do this to my family...I knew I had to survive.... It became the only thing I could eat for months at a time. Even if it's half a square, that's enough to keep you alive. Chocolate also actually saved my life at times. I've eaten it before when I could literally feel life draining out of me, and in so doing, felt life flow back around my body.

So, not buying a bar of chocolate today, just in case I, a) bring up my dinner or, b) freak out and can't eat it... either way, not having a chocolate get out clause of either of those situations is a pretty big step, it would seem. I didn't need that security today for the first time possibly ever. Because I knew, I just had complete faith in myself that I knew what I ate for dinner tonight was one hundred percent going to stay in my body.

Another way that a negative part of me worked with Me in the Now, and created a good future, certainly for this evening and its outcome, despite being built from a rocky past. It's pretty cool. And really, all I have to do is open my eyes, look up, and take a good visual intake of what's happening right now. In all aspects of your present. Finances, romantic, all of it. Have a good long look at it, take it in, see how it makes you feel, and why, and what you might change - not about the situation - but about your response or reaction to it, to make it better for next time, or improve another aspect of your life, the best way to go about making that inner change or adjustment... by the time you've done all that thinking, it's already happening, because it's now again, and the rest doesn't matter, as it is in the past, and because you're a master of living in the Now, you can let go of the past.

Another interesting thing that happened last night while I was writing this was that I texted my best friend about something in the first bit of this post, about loving yourself. She said, it's not that easy is it? I was feeling pretty low when I started replying, and said You know what, no, it bloody isn't. I was actually getting sort of het up inside feeling frustrated at having to do this impossible task of learning to love myself. I said, I've spent my whole life feeling at fault, for everything I do and have ever done, and not only that but I've been conditioned to believe that assumption is correct, that I need to apologise for who I am, and that I am a failure as a person. Even if I wanted to love myself (which I don't, because I don't feel I deserve to) I have no fucking idea how.

In a previous text I had said that I was upset at being told that if you don't love yourself, you don't truly love others. And she said it was easier said than done, so I said yeah, exactly, the truth was that it broke my heart, because it's true. Love another in a way that makes the other grow as a person, you cannot, until you have those feelings for yourself. 

I then said this.... and I wasn't planning on saying it, and had to go back and edit it to include what I was going to say just to make it fit with what I'd already typed, because out of nowhere, I just completely changed tack and it just came out as I typed. I started off saying I was crushed... then: it makes me see how much more I have to give once I start loving myself. What I added was - through all the self hate and self-abuse, somewhere in there I've been able to see that I am loving, have the power to help others, and was born a care giver and empath. Realizing that you can't do any of this without self love made me feel like I'd failed even at loving people, and that's why I was feeling so low all day. And then it just turned around in my head, just like that. I just sort of went, oh, can't believe I just wrote that, and realised that it was the way I should be looking at it becuase it was -is- completely true: If I am as loving as I am now without the self love, then the love I have to give after literally knows no bounds. 

Again, this knowledge instantly makes it easier to change the way things are in terms of self love. And that was it. The text started out with what verged on despair, if writing could have tears in it, then my words were crying, and as I typed it was like a little light flicked on and filled me with light. I think I might have actually been told as much before, or showed that way of looking at it, I'm not sure... maybe, but it felt like such a revelation for me really. I actually turned around and asked if the lights got brighter, I felt like this little glow had lifted the darkness I'd been feeling all day. This, with all the love I was feeling (aforementioned)... I went to bed and slept beside the man I love for twelve hours straight. No dreams, night terrors, no medication to aid sleep... Just sleep. 

 

Anger is a tough emotion. At the end of the day there are actually only two emotions: Love and Fear... all the others stem from one of these. I think anger stems a little from both. But for me, mostly fear. And you know what else? I fear my anger. I fear what I might do if I allow the anger inside me to come to the surface. I may have little to no self-love, but I have enough to know not to let the anger out because I think it would kill me - that I'd hurt myself so badly - as we've established the self-love is there enough that I have not managed that yet: that's why. 

But I have quite deep rooted fears of anger. I get scared of other people's anger very easily, even if it's not directed at me, I'm just in the room with it; my instinct tells me to run away. In this case of fight or flight, for me, it's flight. Sometimes it's even freeze - going back to my fear of losing control. Which makes complete sense: I see anger as a form of loss of control. So, yes, I fear my own anger. Because I fear losing control. Perhaps it is time to look at why I fear control or lack of it, and figure out a way of dealing with that; perhaps if I do that the rest will fall in to place? Like the fact that at the moment that anger is directed inwards. Consequences aren't great.

On the flip side of fear and anger, love resides, and lives on inside all of us, protecting us from the fearful things and the feelings we fear. The last thing I wanted to write about today was a form of love, and the newest source of it in our home: Lottie.

Lottie is a little kitten, a little piece of delight that came in to our lives about four weeks ago. Given to me by a friend of mine and her family, even the circumstances by which she came in to my life are the exact ones I am, and want, to be in. Having Lottie here (in all her cuteness), heightens this feeling every time I see her, and play with her, bring her up to be the lioness she has the potential for. It's like a It's not just 'Pippa and her dog came to stay' feeling. Having a cat together allowed me to settle in more firmly in to being here, and gave me a huge sense of belonging, and of worthiness within the space I live. Like me not being here would make it not as nice... These kinds of things, are the things which came about for me when we got the cat. She's so important to me, I can't tell you. (Bear with me, I may not have children but it's my birthright and is written in the stars that I will have them, so my maternal instincts are pretty strong) Not comparing animals to children, but I just mean in the sense of rearing a tiny, helpless life form. 

Lottie is a pretty amazing little creature to be honest. I've had a lot of kittens and loved them all in all their different ways, known them all, but Lottie seems remarkable in some ways that I had yet to see in a cat. Specifically in one way which I haven't seen - she sits on pain. It's different than the way dogs sense emotion and come to aid the situation, Lottie, because of her size, can actually come directly to, and then sit on, the site of pain. She does it with emotional pain and physical pain, the sites that the emotional pain is manifesting in the body. She sat on my chest this morning, where I was carrying a big brick of emotion, and she did it the night I had the antibiotic sickness, she sat on my stomach all night. It's taking a typical cat behaviour and going further with it: She, like all cats, likes to sit and sleep in warm spots. They seek them out, and they know where to find them. Lottie... she sits on the pain. It's like she can feel a surge of energy coming from the site of  the pain, the warm spot, so to speak, and she comes to rest herself and emanate her healing by sitting there. 

She goes where she's needed, too: Sometimes, I am in a snuggly cushion and kitten mood, and she comes to me and sits with me, and sometimes, it might not be me that needs the hug or attention, so she goes there instead. She anticipates mood and feelings, and it's really quite remarkable in such a tiny creature. 

The reason for the pictures in this post is sort of tied to the cat, and it wasn't entirely a mistake that Lottie ended up in the pictures. This little marble model cat, was a mascot of mine for a long time, for the duration of my first hospital stay and throughout many more that followed. He came with me, accompanied me, to every meal and snack I had for years, and didn't leave my sight when I had to eat for a long time after even hospital stays. He was my little guy. I eventually had to let him go, as I do with a lot of comfort things, but this one had significance for me, and I couldn't eat without him there.

If you look at what's written on the base, the sides: Health. Happy. Wealth. Those words are etched in to the marble base and that's what I like so much about it. Things to live by, and a little happy kitty on top to prove how easy it is to live by those things. The cat simply sits on top there, smiling away, because he's living three things: Healthy, happy, and because of that, wealthy.

But as you see from the last picture, my little mascot has actually broken. The cat has come away from its base. The base that holds it down. It's been sat there forever, since it was made, but now it's free to move around. When I noticed a few days ago that it was broken, I felt a bit stricken and made plans to fix it. And then I thought about it and it seems like the wrong thing to do. It is not a case of wanting to be away from health, happiness and wealth. It's just that being free from any base gives a certain sense of autonomy that being in hospital and being unable to eat without a mascot next to you will never give you. And I am not in that place anymore. I am free. Not just from institutions and rules, but in my head too. I am free, when I choose to be so. I do not feel a need to fix this little carved cat. He can still sit on his base whenever he wants, the health, happiness and wealth are still part of him, in fact, he doesn't stand up without the base anyway, he needs them. But like I said, it's not fixed anymore. 

In that respect it's like Lottie, who has very much got a home, and a base, and she has people she needs and wants to love here in that base, and the dogs too, she loves. However, she is not barricaded. She can go wherever she wants. The thing is, is that she doesn't feel the need, because she knows she can go. She knows she's got a good life and she likes it and she feels part of it, and wants to stay. 

It's nice, knowing that I contribute to a cat wanting to stay in her home. I feel like I too, am finally home.

 

        

The Attempt

3am. From a hospital bed after waking up from an induced coma.

Not that I know, maybe because I don't know, but more likely because the answer freaks me out, so I don't know. But honestly, by this stage, I've actually forgotten the question. So that's that. 

How many of you out there can honestly say that you've run a bath, strategically placed  not one, but two razor blades on the edge of the bath, run the bath, had a cigarette, taken over a hundred and fifty tablets used for psychiatric care, and washed them down with a bottle of vodka. How many of you out there can honestly say that you've then got in to the bath and, while the tablets begin to take effect, taken the blades, one in each hand, and slashed at your arms til the bath water is pink because of all the blood?

I can say it. 

I did it two nights ago. While I was doing it, I was thinking, shouldn't I be crying, be in some sort of pain, anguish, desperation? I didn't at all. It made me feel better. The option of the physical pain of repeatedly slashing my arms with razors was preferable to the pain I was feeling inside. But you know what the really fucked up part of it is? (And this really highlights how much of a problem my eating disorder really just) Most of the time, I was just counting the calories in all the vodka I was downing. 

I systematically took every single tablet in that pack, my weekly supply. Even the fucking Pill, even the calcium. But I guess I must have known I wasn't going to die, because I saved the tablets that help my tummy, I knew I'd need them. But sleeping tablets, prozac, anti depressants, mood stabilizers... all of it. What I can't figure out is why I was so calm about it. Probably because I knew that it would stop the pain. I've come to the conclusion that I didn't - DON'T - want to die. At all. I don't. Sure, I say my life is worthless and I believe that down to the core, I genuinely feel worth nothing and that my life isn't worth living, but you know what? I still want to. If that's okay. 

You know. Only if it's okay. And sorry, just....sorry. I'm sorry for more and more things these days, I even apologised for going to the shop and buying a bottle of water today, like I needed to justify why I was spending money on myself, because I honestly don't feel like I deserve to. Especially now, because of what I've done. Everything is usually my fault. I am learning though, and my way of learning is to catch myself apologising and then laugh about it. 

It's not something I've ever done before, is laugh about it. It actually feels like a massive break - through. Yeah, yeah, I know it's not a laughing matter but when I think about some of the things I used to do, and still do. It's ludicrous. I'm laughing as I write this and it feels good to laugh. I'm thinking of making a comic book: Pippa's Eating Antics. 

OMG. Even that, those letters, it spells a food. PEA. That's funny. Maybe not to you, but it is to me, I've lived without laughing properly  for fifteen years so if anyone has the right to laugh at herself it's me. 27 tubs of butter every week for about four years, I mean come on. What must people have thought? I think it's safe to say that although it's desperately sad, at the same time it's pretty fucking funny, especially if the person who bought the butter is laughing now. But sure, at the time, it was not funny. My mum cried every time I bought butter, and that's on me. And for the pain I caused her, I will never forgive myself. Ever. 

 Anyway, whatever. My point was that if you can laugh about your mistakes, even just something or even just something you think about, you can begin to own them as your mistakes, and when you own something, you have power over it. Does that make any sense? 

Laughter, they say, is the best medicine anyway. As far as I know it releases certain endorphins which in turn make you feel good, but I will have to look it up, don't quote me on that. In the meantime, as yourself, when was the last time you truly laughed, I mean laughed so hard you couldn't even stand up. If you can't remember, it probably means you need to do it. Go for it. I dare you. 

Anyway, on a more serious note, I am currently in the Regional Hospital after taking a drug overdose. Tomorrow, men in white coats will come to decide my fate. Am I worried? No, not really. Because I don't really care enough about myself to worry about what happens to me. If I worried, it would be like giving myself a present or a reward, and bad girls don't get presents, do they Daddy? 

I've called this post "The Attempt" for a reason. Before I started writing this, I wrote a letter to a close friend of mine, in which I said that if you try to do something, the chances are you've probably already failed. I should point out, that this is not actually my sentiment so I don't want to take credit for it - but I understand it so I can explain it. The reason I'm passing it on, "spreading the word" for want of a better term, is because the person who told me is right. Think about it, a simple statement "I tried to open the door", translates, basically, as "The door is still shut, because I only tried". Get it?

You can apply this to your life choices and actions as well as your thoughts. I'm going to try it. Ah! Ha! I'll rephrase that shall I? I am attempting to make changes in my thoughts, behaviours and actions. Consciously. I'm already doing it sub-consciously, and so are you. One thing I've learned over the past four weeks, your sub-conscious always always has your back. Think I'll make up a new song. If at first you don't succeed, attempt, attempt again. 

There's actually a lot of tricks like these in the English language if you take a closer look. And if you're aware of them you can really use them to your advantage, and it can make conversation pretty... illuminating. For example, someone I know texted me to ask if I was okay and I said no, and she said what's wrong, tell me I WON'T TELL NO-ONE, she said. Translation, I'll tell fucking everybody because she loves gossip and she loves a scandal. She said it herself - the words, I'll tell no-one. Completely true. But at the moment I'm only really becoming aware of this language thing, only know a handful. Practice needed, and experience. Will report back. 



So... this... this... situation? Mess? that I'm in. It's now 4 am, and I'm hooked up to a bunch of machines, can even have my phone cos every time I pick it up my heart rate jumps and the nurses freak out. It's dark, and they're wondering why I won't go to sleep, I''m writing this with pen and paper. Now, I could go off on a tangent here about how nice it is to put pen to paper for once, instead of all these electronics, blah blah, but I know full well that it's just a delay tactic, because I don't really want to have to explain my latest fuck up. 

Yes. Latest. I fuck up on a regular basis. I keep saying "I'm sick of it" but if you think back to what I just said about language, cover up the words "of it" (just with your finger). See what you're left with? I'm sick. Yeah, well I already fucking know that, so why drop it in to everything I say? (Probably cos it's always on my mind). 

Went to see Orla Foley last week, for energy healing, chakra alignment, sports physio (By the way, highly recommend that everybody go to see her she's magic). On the way out, a little plaque on the wall caught my eye. I couldn't see all of it, but I got the gist: it said Impossible.... something something... means I'M POSSIBLE. I thought it was just brilliant. It's just another way of looking at words and use of language and it's the complete truth. 

Okay seriously, I said I was going to talk about the attempt about three pages ago, and I still haven't. I've got delay tactics down to a fine art. Especially at mealtimes, I'd say it's really fucking annoying. So, it's (almost) Monday morning. On Friday, I had a good morning and a lovely afternoon with my friends doing crafty stuff, and then I went for a walk, just because I felt like it, not because I felt like I had to, and I felt good. My phone died so I had no music, so I just sang the entire way down the mountain. We ate some cake, and had a laugh, and... i dunno. My chest felt light. I remember saying, I feel like there's a balloon in my chest. I felt free. For someone, really, who doesn't know what happiness feels like, to me, it was happiness. It felt good. 

Now, it's like the balloon has been replaced with a concrete block. Well, actually, I'm not going to say that. It's really more like the block has squashed the balloon down, because that feeling is in me somewhere, I know it is, because I felt it. I have that much to hold on to, at least. So what the FUCK happened? I felt so good on friday. Something shifted and there wasn't much warning. Friday night, I went so dizzy I couldn't get out of the bath, had to eat a banana just to get the energy to get dressed and have dinner. Even then I still felt awful and during the night... oh my god the dreams... I don't have the words. The cramps were unbelievable... no, I'm not even going to think about them because they'll come back, and I've had a whole hour without any pain. 

So, waking up Saturday morning, didn't feel any better. I barely slept and I was physically fucked, dizzy and weak and awful cramps and getting sick. (I'm going off on another tangent here cos this is a good point, back to what happened later). Interesting, that in the past, I have gone 8 or more days without ingesting a single calorie, and not a single wobble. Nothing. Done shit loads of exercise and not a bother on me. Now that I'm coming to these realisations about what I've put my body through, not to mind my soul, it seems that when I mistreat my body or use my disorder against me, my body talks back. I know you're probably thinking, Jesus wept, this girl is off her tits on morphine or something (I'm actually not). Truth is, I know my body very well. It is very sensitive to change. Plus, it's had a lot of abuse and basically what it's saying now is "Enough!"

Anyway, point is, whether it talks or not, my body really ain't happy. Not for long though, I seriously have treats in store for you like. I won't say that this thing has given me a wake up call or a scare as such, cos it's a bit of a cliche, it's more like a realisation. A revelation. T

Thus: I am done. 

I am done, counting calories, exercising, bingeing, purging, all of it. I'm done. 
Oh but... she says. Oh But nothing. Fuck off. Pippa says no. Not this time. 

That was actually really hard to write it took me about an hour. Just that, I'm done. But it's written now, nothing can change that, there it is in this random notebook the nurse gave me. In black and white. I can't scribble it out, or tear up the page, or burn it... It's there, because I, Pippa, created it. 

Ha! Cool! I've created a lot of stuff. More than most, cos of my profession, and everything I make, I pour love in to. I try (TRY, see?) to live my life like this, and to live up to the true meaning of my name. 

Oh yeh what was I saying? Creating words. Right. Not a particularly good sentence, it's short, it's not good English, ya da ya da ya da (Shut the fuck up). But it's there. Just that. I'm done. 

D'you what else is there? Shock. I literally owe my life to another human being. Not to mind the emotional damage I've caused. Oh my God, what the fuck was I thinking.... I really don't know. All I know is that I just wanted to escape the pain. But anyway, here's what happened. 

We got as far as Friday night, saturday morning. So, ate the dinner cos I knew I had to and I knew I wouldn't get away with not eating it, got fuck all sleep basically screamed all night. Tensed up to fuck with pain. Same in the morning. Spent most of the day on the couch, actually, all of it, being looked after by the two boys. If you're reading this, I've learned enough from ye to know that you won't accept my apology, so what I will just say: thank you.

Nothing can change what I have done, I can't take it back. But what I can do is choose what to do next. Something, somewhere, has given me another chance at this life thing. D'you know what, it sounds kinda cool, I think I'll give it a go. Anyone coming? Or are you already there? Can I join you?

I mean basically, the way I see it, I've got three options here. 
1. Do it again, and succeed.
2. Leave hospital and carry on as if nothing happened.
3. Start over. 

A good friend of mine recently said to me, in response to something I said about the break-up with Kegan. I think it might just be the best piece of advice anyone ever gave me. She said, Pippa, start again. Start again, not by picking up the pieces, (I assume she meant 'of my shattered life'), just literally, START OVER. 

Very cool. It's been about ten minutes since I wrote a single word, I've been completely lost in thought for ages now, to the point that I had to lift my legs to wake myself up. The TV is on now, just on a music channel, so there's lots of perfect bodies. I was pretty much in a trance just now, looking at everything, but not really seeing anything. Next second, a bikini clad girl comes on screen and I'm like, bitch! Cos I'm jealous cos my body isn't as perfect as hers. But you know what I did? I closed my eyes, and whispered shhh, not today, not now. I've told you, I've written it down. I'm done. 

And I really fucking mean it. 

Another ten mins went by there, just thinking, planning, not really planning as such though, plans tend not to work out when I make them. It's a learned behaviour, this thing of always needing to know what my next move is going to be. I'm much happier when the only plan I have is to follow the wind and follow my heart. SORRY, what a cliche. It's true though. It's like the word "try", I think, "plan" usually means "fuck up". So now, new plan is no plan. 

So that's that cleared up. Now what? Oh yeah... happier going with the flow. That's probably why I like writing so much, it just kinda flows out of me, I don't plan what I'm going to write. It just comes out. And I let it. I don't mean "going with the flow" as in, be like everyone else, be normal, think, feel and act like every other fucking pleb on this planet kind of way. I just meant... ok I don't really know what I meant, but I know what I didn't mean!

Where was I, like aaaages ago? Oh yeah I got up to about Saturday lunch time. Managed a few spoons of soup. Dizzy, hard to focus, cramps. Massive amounts of anxiety. Like nothing I've ever felt. The only thing that got me through it was planning (ironic, that it was a plan, which I've already said is usually a fuck up) my overdose. Waiting. Waiting for my opportunity. 

What kind of fucked up bitch am I? Oh my God I can't believe I just wrote that. On the other hand though, it came from a desperate place, and a desperate human being will literally do anything to get his needs met. That's the human condition. Look at it from the point of view of an addict. Which I am. Anything to stop the pain. My need? Just... escape. Forget. I wanted to stop the pain, not my life. I am not suicidal, I am desperate. And I am desperate because I am in pain. 

Right, so by this stage I've covered actually taking the tablets, having the bath, the razors, two of them, could do more damage faster with one in each hand. I got dressed, and wandered around for a few minutes, I think I even had a cigarette. Hung up the towels, put my clothes away. Etc. I remember Ian coming back, I think I was in the bedroom, and I heard some screaming about "oh my god you fucking cunt what have you done" kinda think, and he told me to throw up, you have to bring them up. But by then I think I was gone, I must have done because I only know the rest from what he told me. I have absolutely no memory of it. Whatsoever. 

I thought it was maybe an hour later, but when I woke up my mum was looking me straight in the eye, she was right beside me. Roger was there. And I am so glad that they were there, cos I was having some serious hallucinations and I couldn't get the words out to explain what I was seeing because I'd been on a ventilator, I couldn't breathe on my own, so my throat was fucked. Anyway, then Ian arrived, and he's like, it's Sunday evening... what the FUCK. He'd taken me to Nenagh hospital where they'd transferred me to the regional by ambulance. In the meantime, 3am in Killaloe, and the guards are knocking on Kegan's door looking for my mum. And so it goes. So here I am, it's now 5am and I'm in intensive care, but I'm off life support and breathing unaided. It's over. 




Or is it just beginning? My life I mean. I'll let you know.

The Break-Up

Today , about an hour ago, a close friend said "You are such a strong and amazing person". I wish she was right.

If I was strong, if I was amazing, I wouldn't be back bingeing and purging. I wouldn't have bought cigarettes yesterday. I wouldn't have spent three hours running up and down the stairs. On top of an hour's swim, two hours walking and over an hour of aerobics. I wouldn't have had to go to the doctor to get a prescription for Ensure drinks because the truth is, I'm losing weight, and exercising like a fucking maniac, and eating fuck all. Because I can't.  If I was strong, I would be in control. I am so far from that it's almost funny. Except it's really not funny at all. Every day is the same. Eat (purge), sleep, exercise, repeat. If I was strong, I'd be able to live with the decision that I made two weeks ago.

But every day is not the same anymore. Two weeks ago, because of me, all that changed. I broke up with the love of my life, my world, my heart, my rock, my Kegan. Things will never be the same. And it is my fault. Now, every day looks bleaker and bleaker as I go further and further back in to my eating disorder. The difference is now that I am on my own, and I will be for a long time. As I said to the dog yesterday, it's just you and me now buddy there is nobody else. Nobody wants me. And I can see exactly why. I don't even want myself.


Yesterday, basically, everything came crashing down. I let myself feel something. For the first time in two weeks. As I've said, eating disorder is a massive (and effective) distraction technique. However, sometimes, feelings that are otherwise completely ignored and squashed down so far they might as well not exist, come to the surface. And when they do, it's not pretty. At all. What happened was this: I rang my mum and I began to cry, and I said, Mummy, I think I've made a massive mistake. I want Kegan. All I want is Kegan. I love him and I don't want to be apart from him for another second. I hate it. Life without him is not really worth living. She said, Ok Pippa, it's ok, where is he, and I said he's out, she said go find him. Put on some makeup and wear something nice and go and tell him all this. Go and get him back. So, I brushed my hair (for the first time in a few days) and I put on some makeup, and I went where I knew he would be. I wanted to sit down and have a drink with him but he had already left the pub, he was just leaving, so we ended up standing outside the pub in the pissing rain, but still, I told him how I felt. To cut a long story short, he said no. He said, I cannot ignore the conversation we had that led to our breakup (which I will get to in a minute) and if I did, I would be lying to myself and betraying how YOU feel. He said, those feelings, and those thoughts, cannot be undone. He said that he had processed all this stuff and sort of said he had tried really hard to come to terms with it, and that he couldn't undo that. He said that if we did get back together the same thing would happen two months down the line, and that he could not go through that heartbreak again. He said it would be worse too, and that we would end up out of each other's lives permanently if that happened.

So by this time, I can literally feel my heart splitting in to a thousand pieces and I can't even see because I'm crying so hard. And I want to run. All I want is to run away, so far that I run out of my own body because I don't want to live in it anymore. It hurts too much and I don't think I can take it anymore. Full blown panic sets in and I have a huge anxiety attack, which I haven't had in quite a while. I forgot how awful it is. Kegan, at this stage, is crippled with embarrassment because he says we're in public and what the fuck am I doing behaving like a two year old, you're a grown woman, how old are you? Answer me, he says, how old are you? I mumble something, and then break down with more tears. I can't feel anything except pain and I can't breathe because my chest hurts so much. At this stage Kegan, I think, realises that he needs to get me home. He starts walking, because at this stage I'm barely standing. We're still outside the pub and it's still raining. Kegan starts off across the bridge and I really have no option but to follow him. Three times, I stopped because the pain was just too much. By the end of the walk home, Kegan had turned around three times to try and get me to follow him, and in the end, he actually physically put his hand on my back and steered me in to what used to be our happy and loving home.

Not anymore. Now it's really just a place to sleep. For both of us. I have barely seen Kegan for the last two weeks, he only comes home to eat and sleep, and I only stay at home all the time because the food is there, and it's where I cook and eat and purge, and it doubles as a place to exercise. Otherwise I wouldn't be at home either. And now, I have to find myself a new home. I seriously, seriously considering getting the hell out of Killaloe, and moving away. I've even had three job interviews in other places, so we can add that to the list of things that have gone wrong and disappointed me on top of the break up. Job rejections. Other rejections too. I feel pretty fucking defeated. But as of yesterday, I think I've made up my mind that I am going to stay in Killaloe. My life is here. It may be a really shitty life but there's a lot of people here that look out for me and I don't think I want to walk away from that yet. I don't think I'm ready.

On the other hand... Killaloe. Everywhere, anywhere, all of the time, every day, at least twice, someone utters the dreaded words "You're looking well" or comments on my weight, asks me when my baby is due (FOR THE LAST TIME I AM NOT FUCKING GOD DAMNED FUCKING PREGNANT), or tells me how healthy I look. To me, those words are poison. I cannot express how much I hate it. I KNOW, I know, people mean it with every good intention and they want me to know that I look better now that I'm not less than four stone, and they tell me this because they love and care for me, but in all honesty, I hate it, and it literally translates directly as You Look Fat. I have such a history here of the disorder, and everybody here knows me as the girl who walks a lot, the girl who used to be anorexic. Even the shop assistants where I shop know full well that I am buying food I won't even contemplate keeping down. I'm not even allowed in some of the shops here. I don't know that I want to stay. But like I said I just don't think I'm ready to give up my entire life. Obviously, I am going to move out of this house, and really I think that might be enough of a change. So please GOD let me get a job here. Cos I sure as hell can't afford to live on my own without a job. Anyway.

So.  Why did I do it? Why did I even start that conversation? Yes, it was an in-depth and adult conversation, and it was something we should have done three years ago. But that doesn't make it any easier. Deep down, sure, I know it is the right thing but that is somewhat overridden by my insatiable desire to have the love of my life back. The coversation, I think, was sparked by my recent birthday. 29. I think something kind of (slowly) clicked in me that I need to settle down and get the things I want in my life. What I want is babies. Seriously, all I want is to be a mother. I think in many ways it is the only thing that would truly end, once and for all, my eating disorder. I've wanted children since I was only a kid myself. I always have, for as long as I can remember. Kegan does not. There's nothing wrong with that, he just doesn't. But I do. And early menopause runs in my family - my mum was 36. I am running out of time. And I have a thing going on that means it will be difficult for me to conceive anyway, so I need to figure out my options. I want to get married. I want someone who is gonna be there, always. Not always in the pub. That's okay, Kegan, I know you're reading this, and I know how much you like to go out. Like your dad. That's okay. I accepted it a long time ago and I know I can't change it. But even if we did have children, what's to say he wouldn't still be doing the same thing, while I am at home alone struggling to raise our children. I think I realised it's a risk I am not willing to take. I need stability. I've had a very unstable life so far and I need to know I can count on someone. I need to feel safe.

Kegan gave me that for a long time, and I will love him as long as I live for everything that he gave me, did for me and the love and safety he gave with all his heart... but it's been less and less lately... especially with my recent relapse back in to my bulimia and anorexia. I don't blame him. I wouldn't want to be at home with me either. But see, it has become normal. Normal for Kegan to come home to find me fucking about with food, normal for me to exercise six seven hours a day. Normal, then, for him to retreat to the pub. But thinking about it properly, what is normal and what has become the norm doesn't necessarily make it RIGHT. And it has now got to the stage where it is convenient in our relationship for me to have an eating disorder. As long as I'm exercising for all that time, Kegan feels justified in spending the same amount of time away from home. Fair enough. Why shouldn't he? So he has an excuse, and then, while he's away, I abuse food. In more ways than can ever be explained unless you see it for yourself. It is not pretty. So in many ways me and Kegan are enabling each other and that is not healthy at all. Something had to change. And now it has, we had that conversation and now I am alone.

There's a saying: If you love someone, let them go. Kegan and I love each other and I hope we will always be part of each other's life. He is, at the end of the day, my soul mate and my best friend. We have been through too much together, good and bad, for us not to be part of each other's lives. I hold on to that. Today, I miss him. I've hardly seen him, but what I have seen is what my life is now like without him, and I really don't like it. But I guess I have to grow used to it, because there is no alternative. Life feels lonely, withered, and the future is now uncertain and bleak. I really do not know what to do next. I'm the kind of girl who likes to have a plan at all times, so I really am struggling with this. I'm in a sort of limbo right now, and Kegan is too. Until I move out. But honestly, I am not stable enough to do anything at the moment.

So how do I go about making my next move? Has anybody, anywhere, got an answer for me? Because I am, without a doubt, stuck. Up to my fucking neck.

I texted my dad today, asking his advice and he agreed with me that I had made a mistake. At least, he sort of did... His message was a little mixed. My dad is the kind of man that, when he talks, you shut the fuck up and listen. I try very hard to take his advice because much as I dislike it, he's almost always right and he has helped me make a lot of life decisions. And when he gives advice and I don't take it, it almost always goes tits up. So that's why I texted him. I asked him what my next move should be. He told me not to attempt further reconcilliation, and I told him that I wasn't going to. Because it is too late. `But then he said something about not trusting Kegan and his words, which really confused me. So now I don't know what to think. Who knows? All I know is basically I can't lean on anyone this time, it's up to me to fix this relapse. I'm really flying solo this time. Me and Milo.

Speaking of Milo, he knows full well that I am struggling. When I make a load of binge food, he doesn't know what to do, and he leaves the room while I'm eating. He follows me to the bathroom, like he knows I am about to do something bad. I feel guilty, and I feel like I am hurting him. Which is actually heart breaking. If it does that to the dog, what on earth did Kegan put up with for six years? I really can't imagine what it must have done to him, and for that, I will never regret it enough. No wonder he stayed away.

One thing I feel I have to acknowledge: Kegan never, and probably will never, give up on me. I have lost many, many friends over the years because they got sick of it, sick of reaching out and being rejected when I chose my eating disorder over them and their advice and support. I don't blame them. Even my own sister said that if I wasn't family she would have deserted me too. It hurts, and I miss them, and I wish they would give me another chance because I am not like that any more, but I don't blame them. But Kegan, he never stopped believing. Ever. Even at the height of it. Sure, he got incredibly frustrated and angry and all the rest of it, but deep down I know he believes that my eating disorder will not win. I should probably start believing this too. Because otherwise it's never going to happen. Kegan can see beyond the eating disorder, beyond all of it. He sees PIPPA. He always has, and that's what attracted me in the first place.

Ok, I am going to stop talking about Kegan because it's making me sad. Also I've been writing this for three days now so it's time to post and go for a bath and try to eat. Ha. Good luck with that.